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THIRTEEN 
FROM THE FRONT 



A MEMENTO 



With the Compliments of a Pioneer, 
THE author 



WASHINGTON, D. C. : 

Prf.ss of Wallace &: (^\lncK 
1909 






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Do n't lei me surprise anyone greatly 
With a wee bit of thing, called truth; 

That something we somewhere have heard of, 
Way back in the days of our youth. 

Rhymster or poet, to be worth a damn, 
Should at least have something to say; 

And, reader, I herewith make a try 
To record some things of my day. 

The Muse, like a widow, 's a skittish affair 
To a man whose vocation 's to fight — 

The jungle, governmeait, man and beast, 
In an effort to do what 's right. 

I was taAight, when a lad at school. 
To ignore both rhyme and metre. 

By a venerable aged professor 

Who to my mind resembled St. Peter. 

This delightful old sage contended — 

"Poetry is truth irnaginatively expressed." 

I Ti write the truth — for a change — 
And let you, reader, do the rest. 

March 29, 1909. 




SUNRISE 



Rising before sunrise, 

Struggling 'til after dark, 
Man thinks he is working for woman, 

If from selfishness he is apart. 

The flowers bloom, the birds they sing, 
Beneath the power of sunlight's glance, 

And man need never unhappy be 
While to work he has a chance. 

For God, in His infinite wisdom. 

Made man both constant and strong 

To overcome all sorrow. 

By working both hard and long. 




Some love women, others wine, 

And some they love to shirk, 
But the only man who is worth a damn 

Is he who loves to work. 

The man who with care elects to work 
Apart from the rays of the sun. 

Is a mortal unwisely happy, 

For he 's missing of life its fun. 

For to few is given the knowledge 
To find glory in the dawn of day, 

To few is given to understand 
That work is mean's noblest play. 

He who attempts to avoid any work 

Is foolish, pure and simple, 
And cuts about as much figure in life 

As a measly little pimple. 

And the man who fancies he is wise 

To these lines — being written at night — 

Has got several guesses coming to him 
Long before he 's right. 

November h, 1908. 



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THE MONTE-COCA LINE. 



The poets have praised the forests, 
As well as the blazers of trail ; 

But who 's to recount of persistent ones— 
We men who lay the rail ? 

We 're close on the heels of the axe-men, 
Who are clearing in forest shades. 

Even beyond the men who 've planted 
Cane-fields in upland glades. 




Our work 's in a valley that 's green, 
On each side grass, cane and woods. 

And, while good men work elsewhere. 
We also "deliver the goods." 

We 've installed track on the "bajo," 

Built "terraplen," "cantarilla" and bridge, 

And steadily worked up a water-shed 
'Til at last we 're on the ridge. 



Ahead the axe resounds. 

Alongside, the mocking-bird sings. 
From the I'ear the locomotive prompts 

Frightful concern for its si^rings 



10 




For we coax No. 2 to the front, 

On a tickely-bender line, 
While the driver is brave in the hopes 

That all will be right in time. 

Tarantula, centipede and No. 2 keep 
Our nerves and pulse at a throb; 

With constant curve and three feet grade. 
Lifting track is a fearful job. 



Sam, Alec, Woodman, Manasa, 
Bob, Willie, Thompson and Drew, 

Benjamin, Boston, Frazer and Gibbs, 
Among many are but few. 



II 




We 're shunted out at the break of day, 
And hauled home late at night: 

Some day there '11 be a human mess, 
If the line is n't kept just right. 

The boss on the line to the front, 
Objects to empties, early and late. 

Stowing us like "arenques" in the 
"Monte-Coca" strap-hanger's freight. 



River, flood and bridge, 

We 've now left well to the rear, 
Still, the boss's coin (with rum and oath), 

Is our sole, yet ample cheer. 




Some work hard and sweat "a plenty," 
Others t'eaf lots of the boss's time, 

We sun-burned veterans who have bull t- 
The "Monte-Coca" Line. 

We feed at the front with 'Pheene, 
One man knocked out each day; 

Whether a sacrifice to the cook 
Or to progress, no man can say. 



Big pay, free-feed and a scratch, 
Puts some readily on the bum; 

Electing to loaf the rest of the dsiy, 
And thus cull from life some fun. 



13 




In rain we 're huddled 'neatli canvas tent 
You 'd think we 'd never a care, 

On the job, with a hundred men. 
Raising hell with each other there. 

'Neath tropical all-day sun, 
We gather, fill stone and rock. 

Stowing, pushing, unloading cars. 
With never a heed of the clock. 



Days, weeks and months go by. 
Handling, sleeper, rail and spike. 

Some working, others grumbling, 
Yet knowing we 're treated right. 



14 




There 's but one "bianco"' on the job; 

While the biish-'cahns seek rifles to fight 
To secure a thing called "guarantia," 

We cocolos work day and night. 

Hoyo-Colorado and corte Frost, 

Is far to the rear to-day; 
Martin loads cane on the main line, 

But of Shulze — no man can say. 

"The mills of the Gods grind slow," 
But Consuelo's work overtime; 

And — what would 'cahn and cocolo do. 
Without the Monte-Coca Line? 



Monte- Coca, February 19, 1900, 




MY LITTLE NEED. 



The sound of axe, the fall of leaf, 

The ring of rail and the blow on spike, 

Like the song of birds, is music to men. 
Who must struggle to do what is right. 



Men use me for their pack-horse. 
For I delight to toil and grind. 

While carving my way on a frontier, 
Dragging progress and crime behind. 



i6 




They straddle me with a calamity, 
111 the shape of a "gefe" man, 

They rip and break in the custoiri-house. 
Every bottle, .ron rod and can. 

They tie my hands with justice (?), 
While the he's turned free. 

They fail to punish the incendiary, 
But they 've yet to get rid of me. 

There 's one thing, during an age. 
Way back from the very start. 

They have n't been able to conquer — 
My damned white Yankee heart. 



17 




When father said, "Boy, you go there," 
"My son, stay there if you can," 

I plowed through a fierce combination- 
Hell — arranged by tropical man. 

Men hold I 'm almost a savage, 

With room in my heart but for greed, 

Yet out in the world there 's a woman, 
Who best knows my little need. 

A mite of intangible wealth, 

One thing man cannot buy, 
Cannot dig out of the earth, 

Cannot coax down from the sky. 



February 21, 1D09. 



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19 











MY DAY-DREAM. 



I 've toiled all daj^ in the blazing sun, 
On the banks of a tropical stream, 

Building a bridge, with a hundred men. 
And of you I had a dream. 

While the many birds in the pastures green 
Chirped merrily near their nests, 

I could picture you on the river bank. 
As the sun declined in the west. 



When 't was "block and block," with the fall on high, 

And huge timbers hanging in air, 
Men holding their breath, with danger near, 

T longed for you to be there. 

That you might know what manner of man 
You 've robbed of his heart complete ; 

With your frail little body, demure ways. 
And your winning smile so sweet. 



20 











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stout hearts were there, with strong arms plentj^ 

Though not without sulkers a few, 
They thought I was thinking only of them, 

But in truth my thoughts were of you. 

We 've had weeks and months of desperate toil. 

With plenty to do on the morrow. 
And perhaps before our work is complete, 

An accident may bring us sorrow. 

I swore to start a grave-yard 

With the first one who was careless there, 
And the very next instant, in silence, 

I was thinking of you, frail and fair. 

The hope that some day you may see 
This work of men, both strong and true, 

Prompts me to care for each of them 
As if I were caring for you. 

r write with the din of engines and trains 

In my ears, well late in the night. 
That you may know my inspiration 

To do always what is right. 

Januanj 17, 1909. 




RESPONSIBILITY. 



Men long for control and some power, 

But there is one thing of which they lose sight: 

That with triumph comes Responsibility; 
Making thus one a slave to do right. 



Opportunity knocks at least once 
At the door of e'en a sluggard's life, 

And unutilized, it slips by 

In the crowding of human strife. 



22 




The only man who lives, is he 
Who knows not how to shirk; 

For opportunity ever knocks at the door 
Of the man who loves to work. 

The race is not to the swift, 

Nor the battle to the strong- 
But both to the constant effort, 

To have right o'ercome the wrong. 



The race is in the running 
From dawn 'til late at night. 

The battle is in the fighting 

With the test of all one's might. 



23 



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For once the trophy is gained, 
And once the battle is won, 

Reaction 's due with Responsibility, 
Thus ending all the fun. 



The hound finds more pleasure in pursuing 
Than the hare that is being pursued; 

While man, bent on winning a woman's heart. 
Triumphant gains — but desire renewed. 

Ott ambitious men and all who dare 

Through life with vigor to pull, 
Nature burdens Responsibility, 

Thus exacting payment in full. 

January 16, 1909. 



24 




LILY-BULBS. 



God, in His infinite wisdom, 

Created vegetable and animal life; 

One the emblem of harmony, 
And the other that of strife. 



Yet, the men who dare and the men who do 
Are the men who live in their time; 

For the act of an accomplishment, 
Though human, is ever sublime. 



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I 've a thousand men around me, 

In lieutenants I 'm rated strong, 
I try to have "all hands" do right, 

And myself but little wrong. 

I try to pluck from my garden of men 
The drones and the weeds of life, 

In order that some worthy ones 
To live may have less strife. 

I Ve seen in this snowless land 

Even governments come and go. 
For to w^ork in this Garden of Eden 

Men must no less than fight, you must know. 



I have n't much of a flower garden, 
But I hold it 's nearly right. 

For amidst a lot of lily-bulbs 
There 's scarcely a weed in sight. 



26 



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How came the liiy-bulbs to be there 
And the weeds to stay awaj^? 

There is but Httle to recount, 
And I hesitate not to say. 



It seemed as if I 'd never a thing 
That someone from me didn't get; 

But at last I hit upon a scheme 
To head them off — you bet. 

Man, donkey, horse, goat and pig. 

In winter, summer, autumn and spring, 

Seemed to want everything I possessed, 
Except lily-bulbs — they were the thing. 

So I gathered of species and colors, 
Lily-bulbs from both far and near. 

And at last, thank God, I have one thing 
In which I find selfish cheer. 



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To curtail the speed of ill-luck 

Of he who plants lily-bulbs, men say, 

One should select a lazy man 
To keep the weeds away. 

I 've a prize in the form of a gardener, 
Though few men know his worth. 

For he is absolutely next 
To the laziest man on earth. 

Thus I 've learned to like the flowers, 

'Cause I never get any fruit. 
In this land of needless greed, 

In a land where praise is mute. 

In my life I hold all things certain, 
Except one single thing — maybe — 

Will I o'erpower the human weeds, 
Or, will they o'erpower me? 

January 30, 1900. 



28 




OUR JOHNNIE-ON-THE-SPOT. 



G. BUCHER. 



A sarcastic youth and a bit of a wit 
Is Bucher, a friend of mine. 

He got one off on me, all right — 
But I will bide my time. 

I once got off some ideas in rhyme 
Of love, mud, work and rain, 

And attempted to get them into 
His Swiss and clock-like brain. 



29 

The fruits of his vacation 

Was a ponderous volum.e in red, 

With more foolish ideas of love in verse 
Than a sage could hold in his head. 

Gallant Bucher flashed on me this tome, 

Like a "Johnnie-on-the-Spot," 
Thus cleverly indicating his ideas 

That my rhymes were "tommy-rot." 

He 's younger in years than I who write, 
And he smiled at an old man's love. 

In the fooliLiih belief that he alone 
Had ever heard of "a turtle-dove." 

I 'm sorry for my friend Bucher, 

For I 've got him on the hip; 
For what he knows today of love 

Is not even a little bit. 

I '11 be the one to teach him 

That a father alone knows love; 
I '11 teach him that woman 's not in it, 

That work alone is from above. 

I '11 teach him to gloat o'er a broken heart 

Like a miser over his gold, 
I '11 teach him the glory of work 

Long before he is very old. 

In the years to come, when he fathers a child, 
Not love will he teach him, but work; 

For I can say of my friend Bucher, 
He knows not how to shirk. 

January 20, 1909. 



30 




AH BAHD MAHN. 



"Misti wheelee, yoo 'se ah bahd mahn," 
I hear from dependents each day; 

"We can't understand you at all," 
Is what to me the hig men say. 




I am such unholy water, that 

The devil of me has no need; 
For the kind of fluid I spread among men, 

Protects flowers from hypocrite weed. 

When it 's mine, my heart 's lost to a woman, 
The devil rejects my soul each day, 

God has ever been over-indulgent with me, 
'Cause I like to both hustle and pray. 



There 's nothing I need which I have n't got, 
Yet I 've nothing I hold as my own — 

For in the hearts of other men lies 
The sole place I want to call home. 



.-^^ 




A man's hold on the hereafter 
Lies solely in the hearts of men; 

In proportion to the good he effects 
In his day — and later — for them. 

My single delight — to drive my way 
Straight to the hearts of man; 

As with oath and coin I stimulate work 
And thus help them in what I can. 



My one regret — that there 're many men 
Who think they 're alive, though dead; 

Whose name to-morrow will be unknown, 
Except to the flesh they 've bred. 



S3 




For work for man and for woman love, 
Is Heaven this side of the grave; 

The hereafter needs neither Heaven nor Hell, 
For unloved woman and shirking knave. 

At Father's bidding, I bit at ambition; 

My! What a task I 've got — 
Trying to turn too fertile an Eden 

Into a human garden spot. 



The rays of the sun I surprised, 

Writing these lines at dawn; 
Awakened by baby mocking-bird's chirp. 

At the break of a tropical morn. 

Cnnsudo, February 7, 1909. 



34 




POP'S ''MONTE-COCA" SCARE. 



A. W. Feost (Pop.) 



A pioneer's glory is to have companions, 
Rough men — who are not afraid; 

Though with heart and mind as gentle 
As tiny flower or budding maid. 



Bush-'cahns had harmlessly called on us 
The preceding night, tired, forlorn; 

Trying to telephone to town, and 
Quietly going away at dawn^< 



35 




At the break of day, the "Gefe" bold, 

Had pubhshcd to all his fright; 
But little did anyone expect "Pop" 

To recount a scare that night. 

Last night, for a spell, "Pop" called; 

With cigars and in rocking-chair. 
He modestly confided to me. 

His "Monte-Coca" scare. 

The toil of years, o'ercome 'neath the snn. 
Puts some strain on any man's nerves; 

Whether it 's handling bulls and men. 
Or grading up railroad curves. 

He 'd cleared the jungle and planted fields. 
With seed brought from near and far; 

When, at "Hoyo-Colorado" switch. 
Lay the first cropped cane in the car. 

We celebrate on ready excuse. 

And we 've punished some booze in our time; 
And with starting to haul, it came "Pop's" turn 

To treat the boys along the line. 

"Nessie" — the boss' shadow — had gone 

To bodega for a gallon of rum; 
And who could foretell the dire effects 

Once that wireless message had run. 



i6 



The sun burned hot in the sky, 

Some trees nearby gave shade, 
The boss, he "d gone up to the front, 

When "Pop" for a siesta made. 

He dreamed that peace he made 
With fire, mule, man and broncho; 

That— "Hoy o-Colorado" — its name 
Had changed to "Hoyo-Blanco." 

He dreamed of sacred ones afar — 
Of those who were near and dear; 

And, though he 'd only water to drink. 
His thoughts turned to things quite queer. 

Around him he 'd many monsters. 
Straight and those of curved shape. 

All slender, long and writhing. 

And each with the form of a snake. 

A black monster with cutlass in hand, 

Headed each wTiggling one; 
"Pop" got the habit, and began to squirm, 

Believing his time had come. 

Man's reality seldom reaches 
The growth of a siesta's dream; 

Yet "Pop's" dream-fright made good. 
Though seldom by other men seen. 

There was n't a single monster, 

That lacked of twenty-odd feet long; 

He 'd planted better than he knew, 
And played "Monte-Coca" strong. 



A 



37 

Straight forms, as well as curved ones, 
Contortioned 'neatli strong sun-light; 

But none of them wriggled harder. 
Than "Pop" in his little fright. 

"We 're all in a fighting hurry to get 
"That dollar, Mr. Frost," cried one; 

"Pop" wildly grasped at his belt, 
But he could n't move his gun. 

At a blast of steam he awoke, 

Found his canes on the train had gone, 
And his trustj^ old cane-cutters were 

His monsters in human form. 




The boss had gone his way. 

And confided, with argument strong. 

That "Pop" would pay a dollar for canes 
That had a record for being long. 

Who writes can the reader assure. 

Of that rum "Pop" never drank; 
For "Nessie" lost it, bound for the front. 

Stumbling over a railroad bank. 

Consuelo, February 19, 1909. 



THE ABSENT ONES. 



'Midst the toil and dangers of pioneer life 

We 're struggling from day to day, 
In the hopes of making dear ones happy, 
Both the aged and those at play. 

They 've thought well of us in our exile, 
Their prayers for us have been kind. 

And at New Year's Eve it is good for us 
To bear absent ones in mind. 

Let us drink to the absent ones. 

To those who are far away, 
Our dear ones in foreign climes. 

Whom we hope to see some day. 

December 31, 1908— IQ v. u. 



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CEYLA. 



I know a maid as bright as any, 
'Midst eane-tops, flowers and sun; 

Beautiful land where to many 

The day 's finished before it 's begun. 

She 's city trained and country bred, 
And of me she has no fear; 

Brave enough to say — "Antiquities 
"Are not to love, but to cheer." 



For months I 've toiled and labored. 
Not in vain, her to persuade 

That — greatest falsehood is poorer than 
Least truth e'er wi^itten or said. 



40 

Persistent, I finally triumphed, 
For now she 's acquainted at last 

With the fact of the worth of truth, 
When it comes her way slow or fast. 

Wlien awake and not idle, she 's bright, 
For she 's modest, cheerful and gay. 

Still, a little contrary, holding that 
The clearest moon shines in May. 

Running house, or at work on machine. 
Finds her busy whenever I call, 

Her frail work, with delightful disorder, 
She casts over chairs, floor and all. 

A visit to girl friend in town, 

With much "fiesta"— is it for hers, 

Completing quick fancy and liking, 
As to gallant his first pair of spurs. 

Her tresses, they 're long and wild, 

Dark, and becoming her well. 
This unblown rose in a cottage 

On the edge of a flowery dell. 

Her eye — it gleams mellow fire, 
AYhen 'er she shoots her glance 

On Dutchman, native or Swiss — 

Each of whom she can put in a trance. 

With mounted poet and troubadour. 

Some night she '11 fade away. 
Instead of electing to cling to one 

Whose forte 's the rent to pay. 

March 7, 1909. 



41 




SUNSET. 



Beautiful ball of gold, 

With your dazzling wave of light, 
Even you must slowly decline 

At the approach of kindly night. 

Tropical green is your pillow, 
With canopy of steel-blue grey, 

As you slowly sink in a western sky 
At the close of a glorious day. 

You rose to give dawn to the day, 
And declining give birth to the night; 

Sadness and gladness you 've given to man, 
In your burning o'erhead flight. 

Small wrong is done 'neath your light, 

Great good you do in a day, 
And the limit of your influence 

Is not for man to say. 

Born at the birth of Time, 

You 've been God to ignorant men. 
Witnessed their birth and given them mirth, 

iVnd will cruelly note their end. 



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